Twenty-six taps

Dear Baby, 

It’s been almost three years since my last letter. Holy smokes does time fly. I’ve thought of you often, Baby, but less and less so as the days have ticked away. After our last commiseration I decided to have surgery to fix what was wrong with the baby box. Surgery went well, and to tell you the truth, I started to feel so good in the months that followed that I couldn’t stomach the thought of more tests and more drugs to try to meet you, Baby. I’ve grappled with the guilt of that choice for as many months. Without all the pain, and with all the right diagnoses, I lost about 49 lbs in a couple years. (That 50th lb is still hanging on by one f****** box of Mac and Cheese). Even still, I STARTED TO RUN AGAIN. Like run as in Webster’s definition of moving faster than a walk. My legs were like, damn, girl! And I was like, I know, girls! 

Your dad and I have been so busy with our nieces and nephews that we hardly miss you, Baby. But then, there are times that we do. Deeply. I didn’t miss you when I was hiking through the mountains with your cousins, Levi, Gus and Grayson. I didn’t really miss you at the pumpkin patch with Nora and Lyla and Lizzy. And definitely not when I was cuddling up with Hailey and JoJo at the ballet. Or book-shopping with Henry. Feeding Finnick strawberries, or watching Helena and Hugo and Charlie open presents. But I do miss you when I see you all over the place, Baby.

My sisters and sisters-in-law have welcomed FIVE new babies to the family in the last few years. That’s like a full bench. Charlie and Finnick were already in the works, and then came Eleanor, Julia and Cash. But we also lost four babies to that faraway part of Heaven reserved for little spirits like you. Do you know them? If you do, tell Lenny and the others we’ll see them someday. When we’re all in that after-place. I believe there’s a before-place too and maybe you already told me you were going to just hang out there forever and I forgot. Sounds like me. 

Loss is the most universal kind of pain, Baby. And the most brutal. I think the pain of losing a little one who would-have-been has got to be worse than I went through, not even being able to conceive. I conceived of you only in my head, with the fairies and flying cats, but not in my womb where it counts, Baby. All this infertility nonsense made it hard for me to be there for my girls when they were enduring their own heart-blackening losses. And that made me kind of mad at you, Baby. But it’s not your fault. I know that.

Anyway, you must know we have stopped trying for you. We’ve said goodbye to the hope for you, and hello to the memories of hope for you. The memories don’t sting as much as the real thing, hope. The twinkle in my eye is still there, though, and you have a face like Matt’s. And mine, (but more symmetrical). And a name like George or Violet.

Baby, don’t be jealous. But your dad and I decided to try foster care. Turns out becoming a foster parent is as rigorous as joining the CIA, (super spy division), or… Sam’s Club. It’s been an annoying process that we’ve wavered on a time or two, let me tell you. Doing what I do, I know too much. There are many people out there with way harsher realities than my own, with babies. I know we’re unlikely to get an Anne Shirley (#AGG) with whom I’ll be kindred spirits and we’ll pick apples and read books all day. It’s also unlikely we’ll welcome a perfectly healthy infant who isn’t screaming away the effects of meth or heroin. But your dad and I have patience to spare I guess. In fact, there is a little girl sleeping not ten feet away from us right now in our pink spare room with the Squishmallow we bought to help her to feel welcome, and Rosie snoozing at her bedside. It would have been your room, Baby. 

We have no idea how long we’ll rent out your place, but here we are, giving away that love like it’s free or something. 

I’ll miss you forever, but your cousins make up for everything in spades. Thank God for them when you cross rainbow paths, and keep an eye on the other would-have-been babies until the rest of us get there.

Love, 

Mom